


Close Encounter

by ginkyou



Category: Alien Series
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hermaphroditic Genitalia, Non-Human Genitalia, Other, Teratophilia, Weird Biology, Xenophilia, alien/human sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginkyou/pseuds/ginkyou
Summary: It is generally accepted that most species have four basic, primal drives: fighting, fleeing, feeding, and, well, fornicating. Ellen Ripley discovers that this applies not just to humans, but to Xenomorphs as well.AU: canon divergence – set after the end of Alien (1979) in an AU in which Ripley did not notice the Xenomorph that had stowed away in her shuttle before going into hypersleep.





	Close Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Note on potential squicks with regards to potential consent issues when fucking an alien: the Xenomorph in this fic fails the Jack Harkness test ("does it have human intelligence, can it talk or otherwise communicate with language, is it of sexual maturity for its species? - if the answer to all three is yes, you can fuck it!") as it does not communicate verbally so if that squicks you out this probably isn't the fic for you.  
> The "dubious consent" tag also applies not just to the Xenomorph but to Ripley herself as well. Everything's pretty grey area in this one so proceed with caution if that's a squick for you.  
> Unbeta'd as always.

Waking up from hypersleep was never a pleasant experience. It always came with side effects; nausea, headaches, blurry vision.

But suddenly being pulled out of blissful unconsciousness by a blaring alarm and the sight of a raging Xenomorph clawing at her cryostasis chamber was by far the most unpleasant awakening Ripley had ever experienced.

Ripley’s vision swam, her body shocked by the abrupt awakening. Black shadows swirled around her. She felt heavy yet too light at the same time, struggling to regain consciousness like a man struggling to get out of quicksand; slipping under and coming back up over and over again.

_‘This is a dream. A nightmare.’_

Something wet and heavy dripped onto the frost-covered glass top of her chamber — _rain?_ , her sleep-addled brain asked, conjuring images of Earth, of trees in the rain, of a warm spring shower that drifted across her mind like leaves on a lake — and it took her what felt like an eternity to realize that it was spit, flowing from the alien’s bared fangs. It trickled down the glass. The alien hissed and growled and bumped against the cryopod, making it shake.

_‘Oh fuck,’_ Ripley thought. ‘ _This is real._ ’

And then, her training kicking in:

_‘Hit the hypersleep emergency abort button. Run. Get the gun.’_

But that wasn’t an option, was it? That was the procedure if a fully staffed vessel encountered a living threat in an “all hands on deck”-style situation, and it would work in that situation because the crew’s strength in numbers could balance out their hypersleep-induced mental and physical handicaps. Ripley was alone. (Well, alone except for Jones, who she realized with some relief was still curled on her legs, still deep in his most blissful and oblivious hypersleep.) And she wasn’t facing, say, armed pirates but a beast that had killed her entire crew in less time than it had taken to bring the Nostromo’s cargo on board in the first place. If she opened her chamber, she would be dead before she could even stand up.

The alien snarled and swayed, spit still oozing from its maw in thick, frothy drops. Ripley surveyed her chances.

Cryostasis chambers were built to withstand point-blank small arms fire and adverse environments of many kinds, even dramatic pressure loss from hull breaches or (at least for a limited amount of time, before its backup life-preserving systems would inevitably run out of batteries) a complete shut-down of a ship’s major life-preserving systems. The chamber Ripley was in clearly had suffered some kind of damage or else she wouldn’t have woken up, especially not with the lid still being closed. Ripley’s eyes drifted around her chamber. No cracks in the glass. She craned her neck to survey the entirety of the pod and as she did, the alien snarled angrily. Jonesy twisted on Ripley’s legs before settling back down, startled but still asleep.

The glass top did look a bit scratched, sure, but it showed no signs of major damage, at least for now. Right above her face, the glass looked… foggy; not cracked, but dulled, with little scratches running up it. With a shudder, Ripley remembered the last pieces of her dream — she had been playing basketball on Earth, and all of a sudden the ball had transformed into something strange and horrifying, bouncing with a loud, dull sound again and again as the sky blackened -, realizing that the sound had in fact been coming from the alien smashing its inner jaw into the glass.

Did she have any item of defense or even attack inside the chamber? Her finger ran over the glass box that covered the emergency abort button, searching to its left and right for something, anything, that could help her, despite the fact that she already knew that there were no other buttons, no secret weapons or hidden doomsday switches. All that she had access to was herself, some uncomfortable company-issued underwear, and a cat.

So that was that — there was no way to kill the alien from inside her chamber, and no way for Ripley to get out of the chamber without getting killed. Ergo she would do… what? Wait? Wait for what? For the air to run out, if the alien had severed the oxygen supply cable to her pod? For the alien to figure out how to get into her pod and eat her face and/or use her as a surrogate mother for its hellspawn children? For a miracle — for the alien to suddenly drop dead of a heart attack? (‘ _Does it even have a heart?_ ’ she pondered momentarily.) The two of them were, for all intents and purposes, stuck in a stalemate.

Jonesy opened his eyes, blinked, looked up at the alien, looked at Ripley, and went back to sleep. _‘Great,’_ Ripley thought.

Approximately eight minutes later, the alien seemingly grew bored of hissing, swaying, and drooling and slithered down from where it had been perched on the pod. It didn’t take long for it to settle on top of a desk, still close to the pod, still in sight of Ripley. The aliens tail curled up around it, giving it an almost quaint appearance. Ripley knew better than to mistake this for a chance to run for her gun. From its vantage point, the alien would be able to (literally) get the jump on her if she tried to get out of the pod, and even though it was a mystery to her how the alien’s sensory abilities functioned exactly — echolocation maybe, or some organ of vision so exotic she couldn’t recognize as such? — she could tell its attention was still fully on her.

Just as the alien had settled down, a second alarm came on, this one closer, more pressing than the first. Ripley recognized it. So it really had been the disruption of the oxygen supply that had been the cause of her rude awakening. The second alarm meant that she had a mere ten minutes left to either somehow establish the connection between her pod and the ship’s main air supply system (impossible from inside the pod) or open the lid (inadvisable).

After a few more moments of fruitless waiting, Ripley sighed, gritted her teeth, and hit the emergency abort button.

Jonesy scurried off.

The alien didn’t advance.

Ripley raised her hands, palms pointed away from her and fingers splayed in an instinctual gesture of placation. “ _Stay_ ,” she mouthed as intensely as possible. The alien slowly clawed at the ground and curled its lips. Neither of them moved. The air felt electric. Ripley could hear her heart pound in her chest. Her hands shook slightly as they hung in the air. She raised her leg, preparing to step out of the hypersleep chamber. The alien hissed threateningly and lunged forward. Ripley flinched and froze, her naked leg hanging over the side of the chamber.

But the alien did not strike. It paused, closer to Ripley now, a low, guttural growl rumbling out of its half-open mouth. Watching Ripley (or whatever else it did, lacking eyes). Like the headlights on a truck staring down an ill-fated deer.

“Okay,” Ripley said. The alien growled loudly and snapped at the air. Then it seemed to settle again, its tail slowly curling around it as it chittered nervously. Ripley took a deep breath. “Let’s try this again.” Her toes curled, then flexed. No reaction from the alien apart from some more chittering. She shifted her weight onto her side and, moving as slowly and gently as she could, rolled out of the pod. And still, the alien did not strike. But, Ripley realized as she let herself drop into a crouching position, there was a problem: the alien sat firmly and unmovingly between her and the weapons storage locker.

Her eyes darted around the room. There was nothing near the pod that wasn’t attached to anything, nothing she could break off or otherwise use to defend herself. Not even a pen to stab it with. She stared at the alien, breathlessly, wordlessly. It stared back at her. So close to it, she could see that its head was partially translucent, hiding a skull under it. Its eye sockets were dark and empty.

There was a dripping sound, thick and heavy. The alien’s mouth wasn’t open. Ripley’s eyes wandered downward. Her hands felt cold and clammy. The floor was ice against her feet.

A gash pulsed between the alien’s legs.

It was opening and closing, like a slurping, sucking mouth. Two ribbed, fin-like lips moved outwards and inwards, waving an obscene invitation at Ripley. Something stuck out from inside the alien, from inside the gash, peeking out from the dark passage pulsing between its legs. Ripley’s upper lip curled in disgust.

With a heavy, wet thud, an appendage dropped out from the gash. Ripley yelped and fell backwards. The alien screamed a high-pitched scream and shook its head, spit flying from its maw. The organ, long, thick, ribbed, partially rigid and partially flaccid, spasmed aggressively, pulsing, twisting, curling, hitting Ripley’s legs as it moved, a thick, gelatinous liquid dripping from it as it moved. It reared upwards like a snake preparing to strike and then dropped with a disgusting splash on the floor between Ripley’s spread legs.

It was quite obvious, from both form and placement of the appendage, what its purpose was.

Ripley stared at it. The alien clicked its teeth a few times. Neither of them said a word.

‘ _Fight, flight, feed, or fuck_ ,’ Ripley thought distantly as the appendage — the organ — the tentacle — the _thing_ twitched softly between her legs. ‘ _The four Fs of stress response behavior._ ’’ She felt very, very naked in her company-issued underwear.

“You haven’t killed me yet, so you want me alive,” she said out loud, more to herself than to the alien. The alien hissed. “But this isn’t how you procreate. Kane had that thing attached to his head, he didn’t… fuck one of you.” Or at least so she assumed. She furrowed her brows. One of the others — Dallas maybe, or Lambert — had said that the thing on Kane’s face had come from an egg. Planting an egg in a life host didn’t really make sense when it also needed a life host to gestate in later. That just seemed impractical. Redundant. So that wasn’t what it was trying to do here — was it? It wasn’t trying to plant something in her, was it? Ripley stared at where the alien’s face should be, where she should have been able to read its emotions, its intentions, but where there was only smooth, shiny black. ‘ _But then why is it doing this?_ ’ The alien rumbled. Ripley grimaced. “You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

The alien growled and inched closer, its front claws placing themselves next to Ripley’s shoulders. Its mouth was close now, so close Ripley would have been able to smell its breath had it had any scent — but it didn’t. Thick spittle dripped onto the naked skin of Ripley’s arm. If she was lucky, she’d be able to distract it by letting it do whatever weird reproductive thing it was trying to do, maybe even incapacitate it by doing so, and then she might be able to rush to the weapons locker. She didn’t really have a choice either way, she had no way to defend herself and the alien was quite literally on top of her. Any wrong move and it’d be sure to bite her head off. It might still do that after it was done with her, now that she was thinking about it. Ripley was not the type to give up. But this wasn’t giving up. This was just… waiting for an opening. Hoping for the best, and looking for a way to turn the tides as soon as possible.

The appendage lurched forwards. It found Ripley’s thigh, then veered off to the side, exploring her leg. It was cold and heavy, covered in a transparent, sticky slime that left a trail on Ripley’s skin like a large, twisting snail. Ripley recoiled from its touch initially, the feeling of its cold wetness triggering some primordial fear hidden deep inside the most primal recesses of her brain. But the appendage was so heavy and so sticky that it clung to her even as she flinched away from it. It moved not quickly but not idly either, curling in on itself, bending, like a tentacle or a tongue. The alien above her growled loudly, its curved, oblong head coming even closer to Ripley’s face. Its mouth hung open slightly. Its teeth were sharp and numerous and Ripley could feel her heart beat faster, could feel the adrenaline pump through her veins as they moved towards her. The alien pressed its maw against the soft skin of her cheek and she couldn’t help but groan in fear and disgust, its saliva dripping down her face, its teeth scratching against her cheekbone. It was powerful and deadly and it was right on top of her, pressed against her; her, prone, defenseless, almost naked.

The appendage slid upwards, moving faster now, twisting, twitching, madly, obscenely, and Ripley sucked in a hard breath as it slipped past her panties, past her hip bones and then she yelped in surprise as it got caught under her undershirt, it immediately moving faster, more frantically, like an animal in a trap, drenching Ripley’s shirt in slime and almost tearing it off, the alien panting, then howling, clawing at the steel floor in stress and panic, before by chance the appendage finally managed to untwist itself from its trap and flopped back out onto Ripley’s legs.

The alien panted and groaned above Ripley. Its head bumped into hers. Ripley instinctively avoided it, looking off to the side, letting its maw glide past her face and letting it settle pressed against the side of her head. Its legs were twitching. The appendage, she could see whenever it moved too far left or right and made its way out from between her legs and into her view, was even thicker now, pulsating rhythmically, engorged and excited. It didn’t seem to have a head but rather two rows of thinner tentacle-like tendrils that helped it cling onto whatever it was holding on to. It didn’t have any sort of opening either, oozing thick slime all along it instead of from a designated hole. Ripley was no expert in non-human genitalia of any kind but whatever this was, it was big and it was wet and it had no intention of letting her go.

The alien leaned back, dropping onto its hind legs. The appendage stopped exploring, slipped off Ripley’s legs and dropped back onto the floor. Ripley took a deep breath, expecting the worst.

With little warning, the appendage shot forwards. Ripley braced herself but to her surprise it slid under her, along the floor, lifting her up. She flailed her legs, caught off guard and off balance by the sudden shift, but the appendage quickly moved up, bracing her by her torso. The alien dashed forwards and pressed itself against her as it lifted it up. Its carapace was cold as ice. Its front claws — hands — whatever they were — grasped her, one close to her shoulders, one gripping her rather haphazardly by her thighs. The appendage slid around her, twisting itself around her momentarily but still did not seem satisfied.

The alien rumbled (frustratedly? Excitedly? Ripley could not tell) and the appendage let go of her torso. It slithered down her back, and then finally, finally, it seemed to make its mind up as to where it wanted to go. It lapped at the insides of Ripley’s thighs for a few moments. Ripley shuddered as it spread her legs further. It wasn’t cold anymore, almost room temperature, but the sticky sliminess of its surface still felt strange and alien against her legs. It prodded at her panties quizzically, then, more by sheer luck than by design, got caught under them and ripped them off (‘ _quality Weyland-Yutani craftsmanship,_ ’ Ripley found the time to think).

It glid between her thighs. Ripley started breathing faster, in excitement maybe, or possibly just in resigned preparation for what was to come. The appendage was slow now, curious, its once maniac twitching calmed to a focused, searching pulse that carried it forward methodically. The alien had grown quiet. If Ripley closed her eyes, she could almost forget the situation she was in and just enjoy the feelings. Even the alien’s carapace had warmed up enough through its contact with Ripley’s body that it was only minimally distracting. She could imagine that it was a cold table maybe, or an excessively uncomfortable chair, the kind Weyland-Yutani mass-produced for thousands of spaceships, and the slimy wetness covering her where the appendage had touched her was just lube, or water, maybe she even was on some moon, bathing in its nontoxic but gelatinous fluid reserves, the cool light of a distant sun beaming down on her, all alone, all by herself. But then the appendage slid further downwards and finally had found what it was looking for, wrenching her abruptly out of any fantasy and back into reality. A cruel spark of pleasure shot up through her core as the appendage rolled over her clit, rippling against her as it moved further down. She barely managed to gasp in a deep breath before it entered her.

It hurt. It pushed into her with no mercy, not waiting to let her relax, ignoring the way she gritted her teeth against the pain, the way her body twisted trying to get away, too delighted in having found what it had been looking for. It didn’t thrust once it was inside her, it pulsated, expanding even, filling Ripley like water filled a riverbed, licking at her insides, touching every nerve at once and always pushing, pushing, pushing. On the outside, it slid up and pressed itself against her leg and stomach, enveloping her clit in its grasp as it did so. Ripley’s head spun and reeled. There was pain, and there was pleasure, and there was so much of it all. The appendage didn’t find her g-spot as much as it naturally expanded into it; it pressed against it like it pressed against everything else, pulsating against with a steadily increasing rhythm that seemed to mirror her heartbeat, moving in sync with her, a frantic, tantric dance. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before, being filled, truly, every inch of her insides in contact with the pulsating, twitching appendage that molded itself to her, like the ocean flooding a valley, like a crowd rushing into a building. It hurt, yes, pushing against aching, screaming muscles and never stopping to let her rest or relax, but it also felt so, so good.

She had not expected to come so quickly, had no expected to come at all, but she could feel the orgasm building up already. She could feel herself tensing up, the alien’s appendage pressing, pulsating, rubbing against her insides and lapping at her clit, its thick fluid dripping down her legs, the pleasure drowning out everything else. She realized she was panting, moaning, loudly, and the alien was answering her, panting, growling, drooling. Its thick saliva dripped onto her top and she scrambled to pull it up, exposing her breasts as it dripped down, trailing over her stomach. The alien’s maw bit at the air next to her head, its claws digging into her skin. And then she came, screaming almost, her eyes rolling back in her head as the alien pressed into her, pulsated inside her, filled her up.

She rode the orgasm for what felt like an eternity, adrift in the waves of pleasure and the utter fullness. Just like how the sea ebbs and retreats from the shore, the appendage too finally began to shrink. Ripley shuddered at every movement, overstimulated, until it dropped out of Ripley and onto the floor, exhausted, spent. Ripley felt quite the same.

But the alien was still growling, chittering, swaying in a way that seemed quite frustrated, quite agitated. Ripley examined it through half-closed eyes, catching her breath. The two fins around the outside of the gash the appendage had come out of were still motioning aggressively, waving inwards and outwards, despite the appendage itself having gone limp and mostly still. Ripley cautiously, curiously moved towards it, her limbs heavy and her insides buzzing with the remnants of her orgasm. The alien did not back away.

The gash was just as cold to the touch as the rest of the alien. As Ripley’s fingers touched it, the alien chittered loudly and lurched towards her, Ripley’s hand practically being forced into it. Ripley made a noise of disgust. The gash was just as slimy and sticky and cold as the rest of its genitalia (or whatever they were). But the alien seemed to enjoy it, purring and chittering in a way even Ripley could tell signified happiness.

The alien’s internal genitalia didn’t seem to match anything Ripley had ever encountered, her fingers feeling bumps and ridges and multiple canals, but the alien never ceased its happy chittering as she ventured forward, now up to her wrist inside of it. And quite suddenly and with little warning, the alien let out a high-pitched roar, its insides contracting against Ripley’s fingers, gripping her hand tightly, almost painfully. In a flash the fear that the alien might crush her hand shot across Ripley’s mind but she couldn’t take her hand out, the alien clenching down on it too strongly. She could only ride it out.

When its vice-like grasp on her hand weakened enough for her to slip out, bruises were already starting to form around her wrist. The alien barked a few noises at her and then slithered off into a corner where it curled up, its head occasionally jerking up to check where Ripley was but otherwise seemingly placated for the time being.

Ripley rubbed her wrist. She looked to the weapons locker. She grimaced. “Thanks for the ride, pal,” she said and braced herself against the cryopod, standing up carefully on shaking legs. She massaged her thighs, trying to get the muscles working properly again. Maybe ten running steps, maybe eleven separated her from the weapons locker. It was locked, of course, but that was a problem she’d have to deal with once she’d gotten to it. She dropped into a running position. “Now get the fuck off of my spaceship.”

Ripley took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and took off.


End file.
